


A Common Purpose

by Destina



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Speirs and Lipton tend to the men in their care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Common Purpose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sidrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidrin/gifts).



The stench of wet, moldy plaster permeated every corner of the command post, even in the room the guys had set aside for Lipton as his own personal sanctuary. He knew he was pissing off Speirs by refusing to take advantage of the bed made up with actual sheets, but getting into bed would involve taking off his clothes, and maybe they stunk, and maybe they were dirty as hell, but they were warm, and so was he. He'd been shivering for so long now he thought he might have permanent tremors up and down his spine. Peeling off even one layer could send him back into a coughing spasm, and that was a weakness he couldn't afford to show.

Other smells were mixed with the moldy plaster: the icy damp of the Moder River; the lingering acrid smell of gunpowder; the ripe odor of guys who hadn't had a hot shower in weeks. It was worse, maybe, now that half of them were clean, since it was easier to ignore when everyone he passed could curl his nose hairs.

Lipton tried to ignore the crumbling walls and the evidence of death and decay. He had to be stoic about the pressing ache in his chest, because the men were coming in now in a steady stream, one after the other, and they needed some attention. In their eyes, he could see an afterimage of death: Eugene Jackson, just a kid, screaming and whimpering and dying in a cold cellar. Dying for nothing, in the last days of a waning war.

None of them actually said it was a meaningless death, but the truth of it weighed down all of them.

Malarkey sat at the foot of the couch and clasped his hands tight together and wouldn't look at Lipton, wouldn't lift his chin, until Lipton said, "Hey, Malark. Don't you think I would rather have been out there, too?"

"Speirs didn't give it to you," Malark said, and then he did look up, and there was that wild, desperately tired stare, the deep shadows hollowing his face. "It's not your job anymore, it was mine, and I should have done it."

"You saying Martin messed up and got Jackson killed?"

"No," Malark said quickly. His knuckles went white, fingers so tight together nothing could get between them. "You know that's not what I'm saying, Lip."

"You'd be the first one to tell him it wasn't his fault. So how is it yours?"

Malarkey didn't answer, and Lipton didn't have much comfort to give that Malark would accept. They sat in silence instead, Lipton watching the hunch of Malark's shoulders and thinking that he'd seen that tension before in Buck Compton, like the pressure of a fingertip between his shoulder blades might break him clean in two.

When finally Malarkey stood like an old man and shuffled out, Lipton couldn't dwell on it, because the other men were making their way in, one after the other. First Liebgott, who pretended to be there to pick up a pack of Lucky Strikes and make small talk, but he sat close to Lipton, and every remark about the mission he hadn't been a part of was cryptic and jagged. Always with Liebgott, Lipton had the feeling there were bruises just beneath the surface, but he'd fight like a wildcat to make sure you never saw them, spit and hiss and cut you if you tried to look.

Ramirez came by, too, gaunt and pale, and Lipton remembered the green replacement he'd been just months ago. No sign of that boy now.

The replacements gravitated toward Lipton, always had, because he tried to make them feel like soldiers, wanted to help them instead of sneering at their efforts. So many of them made their way in that day to ask if he needed anything, but their hands shook and they wanted to know if Lipton had any idea when they'd be moving on.

Lipton read his rosters and penciled in notes on reports, and in between the visits, he thought about how he was these boys' mother, their teacher, their link to sanity.

Near dark, snow flurries began floating by the blown-out window, catching the firelight as they fell. The newest replacement, Gray, was nervously twitching on the stool beside Lipton's couch. Others milled around the CP, reluctant to go back to the damp cellars where they would be safe.

"Out."

Lipton glanced up to see Speirs standing in the doorway of the CP, a bag in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lip. He glared at Gray, who knocked over the stool in his haste to stand up and grab his weapon. Speirs pointed, finger like a bayonet. "Shouldn't you be in quarters, soldier?"

"Yes, sir," Gray said, stuttering a little. He edged by Speirs, passing the other two, who were fumbling with helmets and trying not to catch Speirs's attention.

"Then get there." Speirs stood right there in the way, forcing them to go around him, and then he directed his stare at Lipton. "Why do you encourage them, Lip?"

"Because they need encouragement," Lipton said softly. A cough was rattling its way up from down deep in his chest, and he sucked in a halting breath to push it back down. The last thing he needed was Speirs sending him off the line.

"Up," Speirs said, coming closer. "You're taking your ass to bed, no more excuses." As he approached, a horrible stink came right along with him.

Lipton wrinkled his nose. "What the hell is that?"

"Poultice. Folk remedy. Doc Roe says wear it or else, so you're putting it on your chest." Speirs chucked the cigarette in the corner and reached an arm down for Lipton, lifting him to his feet. Lipton thought maybe he shouldn't allow himself to accept that much help, but there was always the chance Speirs would drag him if he didn't lean, so he put his weight on Speirs as they moved back into the intact bedroom.

Speirs let go of him, kicked the door shut, and dumped the bag with the poultice on the busted up chest of drawers. Not much was left here of the previous owners. Broken perfume bottles littered the floor, and tattered blue and pink hair ribbons peeked out from the shattered top drawer.

Lipton eased himself down on the edge of the bed and started to fall back, but Speirs said, "Don't even think about it. Get that filthy uniform off."

Lipton sighed. "Just have to put it back on in the morning." Even so, Speirs was giving him the eye, so he complied. He began unbuttoning his jacket, but his hands trembled to a stop when Speirs knelt down in front of him and began unlacing his boots. This was the same guy who had run across a field of fire - twice - to achieve an objective and save lives. The guy who had never told his men to do something stupid that might get them killed. He was a killer, sure, but right now he was on his knees on a dirty floor, yanking off Lipton's boot and throwing it in the corner.

After a moment, Lipton went back to fumbling with his buttons. Speirs put a hand on his knee and looked up. "Need help with that?" he asked.

"I'm good." Lipton tugged and pulled until the cloth miraculously separated, while Speirs knelt there and watched him. It took a few more minutes, but he managed to get his jacket and shirts off, and when he reached for his belt buckle, Speirs stood abruptly and turned to get the poultice.

"You're not really putting that thing on me, are you?" Lipton crawled into the bed. The sheets were scratchy against his skin, but they felt like heaven.

"Doc knows what he's doing." Speirs sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled the sheets back, and put the warm towels on Lipton's chest. The heat permeated his skin, went right down into his bones. Aside from the stink, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He poked at it experimentally; Speirs slapped his hand away.

"Leave it. You behave and I'll make Luz bring you over the goddamn Christmas cookies he's been hoarding."

"Two months traveling around Europe after us and you're telling me they're more than crumbs?" Lipton remembered the package Malarkey had passed around; there hadn't been a single intact piece of cookie or cake in there bigger than a dime.

The tiniest smile Lipton had ever seen flashed across Speirs' face. "So I hear." He grabbed the blanket at the foot of the bed and threw it over Lipton, then said, "You move from that bed before morning and I will personally kick your ass, Lip. That's a promise."

"Yes, sir."

Speirs opened the door and shouted "Luz!" A moment later, George appeared in the doorway. Speirs gave him an order; Luz nodded and disappeared down the hallway. He came back with two blankets in his hand; Speirs grabbed them and slammed the door shut again.

This time, Lipton didn't even ask, because he knew damn well both those blankets came from Speirs's bedroll. He had a flash of Speirs questioning a German prisoner just two days ago, the way he'd beaten the man casually, no expression on his face at all, as if no feeling lived beneath the surface.

With a flourish, Speirs threw both the additional blankets over Lipton.

"You do bedtime stories, too?" Lipton flashed him a grin.

"Very funny." Speirs dragged a chair over beside the bed and sat down. He put his feet up on the edge of the bed and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Regimental orders, probably. Lipton started to reach out a hand, but Speirs kicked the bed. "If I wanted your help, I'd ask for it. Go to sleep."

Lipton sighed. Being useless was the worst feeling in the world. The next worst was sleeping in a bed with a real pillow while knowing the men were bunked down without such luxuries.

Speirs sat there at his side, a solid obstacle between Lipton and his guilt.

When Lipton closed his eyes, he slid into dreams of warm summer days and baseball in the sunshine, every fallen comrade beside him; no death, no screams of the dying, no war.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to dotfic and innie_darling for beta.


End file.
